Incendiary
by logopoetics
Summary: RomanRogers AU; rated MA. He spent the last ten years working for the government, recruited right out of basic training into an elite program where he was told he could make a real difference. After finally freeing herself from the SSR, Natasha had made a new life for herself in the States. She still struggles to recognize herself in the mirror but for once, she's finally free. R&R
1. Chapter 1

The little beach town was quiet so early in the morning. She carried her earbuds in her palm and debated if she even wanted to use them. All that met her outside was the fog lining the cliffs and the welcoming smell of the ocean. The absence of lively bodies was not unexpected, but it was unfamiliar. She'd been spending too much time in cities where the hustle never stopped. But here, even the sky still held on to the darkness like a blanket it didn't want to remove just yet.

Her sneakers were soundless on the pavement as she started her run, tucking her headphones into the pouch on her arm. The first reluctant shades of light were beginning to peek from under the blanket of night. All the stars had already faded.

She knew from the map she'd memorized that the beach was only three and a half blocks south of her condo, and the short trip took no time at all. When she ran out of boardwalk, she abandoned her socks and sneakers by the rickety wooden steps and picked up her pace again.

For a long time, she ran, barefoot, happily in silence, chasing the ever-distant end of the beach. Golden light began to pour over everything, illuminating the water and the beach grass. Clouds clustered around the awakening sun, keeping parts of her secret still. Guarding her against the world. Even by the time Natasha reached the edge of the open beach and turned around to head back, the sun was still reluctant to cast her light unhindered. Time seemed to move slowly.

The clouds out over the water had darkened instead of growing more luminescent and implied that it might rain. Tension bit at her calves and her abdomen, but it was a familiar discomfort. She could run another forty minutes, at least, but decided to head back for her sneakers. As the sight of her neon pink Nike's came into view, she could hear someone approaching her a few yards back. All of her attention became heightened, her whole body switching into an almost more natural state of hyper-awareness.

The footsteps were rapid and steady, rhythmic. She kept jogging, listening for signs of labored breathing from the man behind her. She guessed it was a man - judging by the sound of the weight hitting the sand.

"On your left," he said, and breezed passed her. She stood and watched his silhouettte fade into a speck on the horizon, her hand attempting to block out the suddenly rising sun so she could get a description. She'd caught wind of his aftershave, barely got a look at his sharp, angular profile. He'd been a blur of pale blue t-shirt and dark grey basketball shorts and golden light reflecting off of his body wherever it could catch a sheen of sweat. When he finally disappeared, she put her socks and shoes back on and made her way to the condo.


	2. Chapter 2

It was pouring. His mother would have said it was raining cats and dogs. Not even eight in the morning and the sky was nearly black with the thundercloud cover. Coffee percolated and the smell of his breakfast began to emanate through the condo, but it did not cheer him up. He was preoccupied dreading the thought of spending the entire day inside and even the smell of bacon would not alleviate the restlessness that was already brewing in him. Thunder clapped overhead and distantly he could hear the waves hitting the cliff-side, a softer echo of the storm. The fog lights illuminating his deck were a weak weapon against the rainfall. He could see almost nothing beyond them.

His morning run had been cut short by the storm and he'd inwardly grumbled about his dissatisfaction. What was the point of weathermen if they couldn't predict a thunderstorm? Habit had dictated that he check the forecast three times the day before and none of them predicted a storm during his morning run.

The aroma of his coffee drew him from the living room window back into the kitchen. He ate in silence, his attention split between scooping up his food and reading the newspapers he subscribed to. The small island in the kitchen provided a perfect dining table for him - just enough room for everything, just enough light from the hanging mini pendant lamps. An absence of waste was comforting to Steve and he'd never dug around to place why. A shred of altruistic intention might be the only thing that saves him, in the end.

By nine, he was leering out the window again. Behind him, the kitchen was spotless. All things returned to their places, no trace of his breakfast left save for his lone coffee cup beside the re-folded stack of newspapers. Such a waste, he thought, to spend the entire day indoors on his vacation. He snatched up his things by the door, shrugged on his favorite leather jacket over a comfortable zip-up hoodie, and left.

A little rain was not going to trap him inside. That's what they made hoods for, anyway, right?


	3. Chapter 3

The nearest local coffee shop was in a bookstore just inside town. The line twisted out into the aisles of books, but Natasha took a place and waited. Outside, the storm raged on, battering against the windows. All of the artificial light throughout the building did not completely alleviate the gloom of the ashen clouds swallowing everything up outside. She checked her social media accounts as the line inched forward until she could place her order. Settling into a comfortable lounge chair beside the large window, she sipped at her caramel latte and thumbed through a glossy magazine with a woman in a fire red dress, gazing seductively between the strands of her wind-swept hair. Inside, the article misquoted her three times and got the name of her second college boyfriend wrong. She flicked the magazine back onto the table with a dismissive roll of her eyes.

Bringing along her latte, she made her way to the corner of the shop dedicated to vinyl records and smiled to herself when she saw no one else in the way. She took her time browsing, inspecting a few that she didn't have on her must-have list but that piqued her interest, nonetheless. Still, it didn't take her long to pick out half a dozen and decide to cut herself off.

She could get vinyls at home, she reminded herself. Her vacation should be about doing things she can't do between photo shoots or casting calls in the city. As she turned away from the vinyl kiosk, she heard, "Whoa, on your left," and lost her grip on the vinyls as she tried not to spill her coffee.

"Sorry, I wasn't paying enough attention," she blustered out, already feeling the embarrassment creep into her cheeks. Crouching to gather them back up again, her hand fumbling around the edges, she expected him to continue on his way. Instead, his shadow darkened as he lowered himself to help.

Nearby, glass shattered. Her sight snapped up, her muscles tense. Less than two feet behind him, the carpet burst and, instantly, every fiber of her body shifted into an older version of herself. She rushed him, pushing his back against the carpeted floor not far from where the bullet had hit, and rolled herself over him. More bullets whizzed by; the sound was something she'd long-since thought she could hear without having flashbacks, but it seemed she was mistaken. Pain blossomed along her shoulder-blade. She could feel her skin split further as she scrambled to move again but she didn't let it slow her down. Everything moved ten times faster than it should have and she needed to keep up. Just as she registered the warmth of his chest against hers, she was already dragging him up by his arm and pulling him on unsteady feet to hide behind the closest line of shelves. Sticky heat began seeping into her blouse.

"Fucking Christ," he was shouting to be heard over the clamor of terrified customers. "You just took a bullet for me and I don't even know your name."


	4. Chapter 4

4

God, he was stupid.

How could he have let himself believe he would be safe? That they would wait for his answer? He knew, and still, he went out. Put others in danger because he was restless, because his body couldn't quietly house the turbulence in his soul.

Now, this woman, whose biggest crime had been dropping her records on the floor, was shot and it had all been in his name. The bravery it had taken to try to save him was alarming; for an instant, he'd been stunned into inactivity by it. It glowed on her like she was the secret home of the sun. What struck him, then, as he marveled, was that he didn't even know her name. He knew nothing about her except that she was lovely, that she liked caramel in her coffee and had eclectic taste in music, and a wellspring of courage that could put the Pacific to shame. In another surprise twist, she moved like she had practice. She didn't seem to flinch under the pain of a bullet wound.

Curiosity bit at his ankles.

Dozens of people who had been milling around the bookstore were screaming. Debris was everywhere – not far from where they were, the vestigial remnants of her coffee were seeping into the carpet, drying on the plastic cover for the records, being absorbed in loose, burnt carpet fibers. A series of tiny blood drops pointed to their hideaway. Escape made its demanding way to the top of his priority list and he refocused.

Yelling to be heard over the commotion, he said, "Fucking Christ, you just took a bullet for me and I don't even know your name."

"How about we worry about introductions when the police get here?" She barely cast a glance at him, her attention clearly narrowed in on one of the empty window panes. Squinting to see through the haze of airborne debris and the flicker of panicked shadows, she seemed to have caught sight of something. Another round of bullets sprayed and he watched the vinyls she'd picked out become shards. The bookshelf they cowered behind shook with the force of being hit. Splinters rained down on them.

"You want to wait here that long? I vote we get out now."

There was hesitation blocking her words for an instant; so brief he questioned if he'd seen it, but he knew better than to dismiss it. "I need a medic, don't you think?" That was not the response he saw still itching behind her lips. She nudged him to move sideways further, separating them from the trail of blood. They darted between a few more aisles and ducked down again.

"I think there at least two hospitals capable of stitching you up." He wanted to bug out. Everything in him was singing for a good sprint to safety, but he couldn't leave her there, bleeding through the soft cotton of her paisley blouse. Time constraints threatened to move his body for him. "I think we should go. Now."

The full weight of her green eyes moved to him. "Are you running from the cops or something?"

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Who the fuck was this woman?

"No, but the odds of us getting shot are jumping by the minute." Fact being fact, it seemed she did not intent to argue him. They rose up to peer between the shelves as another round of ammunition tore up the bookstore. From their new perspective, they could see bodies everywhere. Much of the screaming had ceased; whether it was because there wasn't anyone else alive or because they'd gone into a terrified silence neither of them could tell.

His palm itched to draw his weapon but he didn't want to spook her. Most women were frightened of guns and he didn't want to give her reason to think he was somehow in league with the shooter, though it made him sick to think that he probably knew them.

Loyalty was a falsehood, he was realizing, ten years too late.


End file.
